


Can I just make some more romance with you

by MFLuder



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Breakfast, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Pancakes, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-23 19:00:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14338983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MFLuder/pseuds/MFLuder
Summary: He comes down the stairs and into the dining room, pausing before entering the kitchen to watch the scene before him.It’s not quite Risky Business. For one, Steve’s got no shirt – typical – and lightweight cotton pants on instead, the kind that are worn in and comfortable. Second, there’s a whole lot less sliding across the floor and more hip undulations while Steve stands there, flipping a pancake.





	Can I just make some more romance with you

**Author's Note:**

> Is this fluff? Is it PWP but without the actual porn? Is it songfic? ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> This has no specific canon date. Probably season 3ish for ages, but canon, what’s that?
> 
> Morrison's _Moondance _album for your[listening pleasure](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hx8LrtNHa1M) as you read.__

Danny wakes slowly, squinting his eyes closed harder as the light makes its way through. After a moment of trying to shove his head into the pillow to block out the day, he gives in and stretches. It’s a full on, toes curling, hips lifting off the bed kind of stretch. The space on the bed next to him is cool to the touch, meaning Steve’s probably on his way in from his swim, if not back already. Opening his eyes to a sunlit room, the full-length mirror in the corner making rainbows dance across the whitewashed shiplap, he finds he actually feels rested. He glances at the clock, the 8:30 flashing somewhat surprising. 

He fondly recalls when waking at 8:30 on a Saturday morning would have been his worst nightmare, but truthfully, that time had vanished around eleven or so years ago due to a small person named Grace, even before Steve and his annoying morning person routine – excuse him, his “years of training and mastery of mind and body, _Danny_ ” – had made it into his bed.

He rubs the sleep from his eyes then casually palms his morning erection through his boxers. It’s no fun without Steve there to taunt though, so he hauls himself out of the bed and into the bathroom. He takes a piss and grabs the blue one of the his-and-his toothbrushes – neatly separated in the toothbrush holder because his partner is a freak of epic proportions, seriously, how did he survive bunking on ships and sleeping in trees without his wintermint floss and toothbrushes that can’t touch each other despite the number of times one of them has had their tongue up the other’s _ass_. He does all this with the door open because its just them, and while he’s brushing the screech of what sounds like a bird dying filters its way to him, followed momentarily by notes of a song he can’t quite make out.

Steve’s definitely back from his swim.

He forgoes a shave and changing out of his blue plaid boxers and white undershirt to investigate the sounds and the smell of coffee percolating.

He comes down the stairs and into the dining room, pausing before entering the kitchen to watch the scene before him.

It’s not quite Risky Business. For one, Steve’s got no shirt – typical – and lightweight cotton pants on instead, the kind that are worn in and comfortable. Second, there’s a whole lot less sliding across the floor and more hip undulations while Steve stands there, flipping a pancake. But it manages to be just as sexy and goofy as the movie scene.

Seriously. It’s adorable.

He doesn’t know if Steve is playing oblivious or is just that into the music, but he doesn’t acknowledge Danny until he comes up behind him, arms sliding around his waist and resting his chin in the middle of Steve’s back.

“Mornin’,” he mumbles into the tan skin in front of him, breathing in the pleasant smell of salt and sea.

Because he’s a total, secret dork, Steve’s isn’t a vocal response, but another circle and twist of his hips, this time right back into Danny’s crotch. When he groans, Steve lets out a laugh and turns his head to plant a kiss on Danny’s hair.

“So. Moondance?” Danny asks, stepping back from his partner after a squeeze of his hips against him, fingers digging into Steve’s hipbones for the briefest moment. He hops up on the counter adjacent to the one where Steve is cooking.

“Mmmm. Van Morrison,” Steve says.

“Ah. So it’s not just a Moondance thing, it’s an _artist_ thing.”

Steve just gives a small smile, bobbing his head to the music as he cuts strawberries for Danny and mangoes for himself. “What time is Rachel dropping off Grace?”

He glances at the clock on the stove. “Couple of hours.”

“Mmmm,” Steve hums again, turning to feed Danny a strawberry. When he reaches out to take it, Steve holds up his other hand, long fingers gently keeping his at bay. Danny rolls his eyes but leans forward obligingly.

He takes a bite, letting his lips brush against the tips of Steve’s fingers, chewing carefully, eyes locked on Steve’s – a translucent blue this morning – the whole time. He back for the second bite, darting his tongue out to lick the juices off blunt fingers, tastes salt along with the sweetness of the fruit. The corner of Steve’s mouth curls up; his cheeks flush the slightest bit of pink.

Danny may not be able to make his hips move like Steve, but he’s not talentless. 

He watches him quietly for another minute, letting the sounds of the record wash over him – where did Steve unearth that thing from? He wonders if maybe Steve’s been up even longer than he thought this morning, searching for hidden wares in the garage or the attic, or if it had been somewhere easily found this whole time and something about this morning just put Steve in a mood.

Not that he’s upset about the mood; it’s cheeky and a little sweet. Steve is generally a calm guy, all practiced ease and devil may care, but even he has nightmares, even he can get caught up in a case: he can wake up entirely blank and focused like he’s still on a mission in Korea or Afghanistan. No, this mood is good.

Steve hands him a mug of freshly brewed coffee: black, with a little sugar. 

“You getting enough iron in your diet? Too much?” Danny teases, taking a sip, watching with a grimace as Steve stirs in his butter. He will never get over it; never believe it’s a thing, no matter what Chin says.

“I’m getting exactly the right amount,” Steve replies, twinkle in his eyes, nodding, though this time Danny isn’t sure if the nod is directed toward him or still with the music. He takes a sip of his own coffee, hips resting against the stove but tilted toward Danny, while he waits for the next round of pancakes to begin bubbling. His arms are crossed, emphasizing the size of his biceps and forearms and the way the colors of his tattoos look brighter in the morning sun coming through the kitchen window.

At some point, the song changed. Danny starts singing along, quiet, coffee cup still in hand, and maybe he alters the pronouns, emphasizing _he_ gives me love, love, crazy love, and is rewarded by the rare big sappy grin that’s usually saved for Grace. It’s unabashed and it’s _brilliant_.

Still smiling, Steve gracefully crowds into his space, right into the vee between the legs Danny opens for him. He noses his cheek, grabbing Danny’s hips, pulling him to the edge of the counter. Their morning erections brush against each other but it’s secondary to the sweetness of the kiss Steve gives him. They sway against each other a bit, half-dancing, Danny as much as someone sitting on a counter can, Steve just shuffling his feet infinitesimally while rolling his hips gentle into Danny’s.

Danny runs his hands through Steve’s cropped hair, down his back. Emotion threatens to choke his throat; he’s reminded of some of the best times with Rachel, the moments when he was so in love he couldn’t see straight. But he’s pretty sure this is going to last – he and Steve are partners before everything else. Something, he maybe didn’t let himself be with Rachel.

The last strains of _Crazy Love_ fade out. Steve’s got his hands resting on Danny’s thighs, leaning in for another kiss, this one just as sweet, but a little dirty, too. Danny’s starting to think they’re going to end up making out right here while breakfast burns, but then the record starts playing the next song and Steve is shuffle-sliding back out of his space, diagonally back with his right foot, then changing directions to do the same move with his left foot sliding back first. His arms are half-raised, moving with his body and he’s even snapping his fingers to the beat. He’s grinning again, eyes half-lidded, apparently that sucked into _Caravan_.

He should look like a goof, and Danny knows Grace would roll her eyes and tell him to _stop dancing like such a dad, Uncle Steve_ , in that know-it-all tone of voice every pre-teen has, but there’s something about the swing of his hips that isn’t half bad and right now Danny is thanking the land of Hawaii for ensuring Steve has a sense of rhythm, vaguely considering the thought of putting Steve in a hula skirt.

Steve turns back to the pancakes on the stove, still bobbing along to the music, not quite singing, but muttering the _la la la_ ’s Van’s got going on. His back tattoo is practically begging to be licked, sticking out of the pants resting low on his hips.

He flips the last golden pancake onto a plate and grabs the syrup from the fridge for Danny, handing him a plate and a fork for them each. 

They stay right there, not interested in moving to the table, caught between gazing at each other and – for Steve – the view of the ocean outside the window. Sometimes, Danny is jealous of the water for its allure and hold it has over Steve. Today though is not one of those days. Armed with the knowledge that they’re going to spend the day with Grace and he’s probably going to get dragged along to the beach or the aquarium, Danny’s own mood can’t be shattered by waves that for once he can’t hear thanks to the music.

Steve soon sets down his plate, empty now – the man is a fucking vacuum, Danny swears. He licks his lips, catching a crumb of pancake and the juice of the mango that was on his lips and fuck, Danny needed to get things done this morning. That weren’t _doing_ Steve.

Steve asks, “What’s the plan for today?” His eyes are bright, glancing at Danny from under his eyelashes like he’s in Danny’s mind, knows what he’s thinking. He certainly knows exactly what he’s doing to Danny, the smirk on his lips a telltale sign.

“Must I remind you, my daughter is coming over soon. There is no time for debauchery when there are dishes to do and laundry. I won’t have my daughter coming over to a pig sty, Steve.” He waggles his finger in a way he knows is not threatening at all.

“Pig sty, Danny? You wound me. I know you’re not there often, but do I really need to remind you of your place, where you still have boxes half unpacked?”

“Is it my fault you practically moved me in here, _abducted_ me, declaring my place a fire trap waiting to happen and thus unsuitable to shenanigans or bringing my daughter?”

“Shenanigans?” One of Steve’s eyebrows is raised as he mouths the word - _shenanigans_ \- again before continuing. “Also, your place _is_ a fire trap. And I wouldn’t have had to abduct you if you just moved in. Moved into my bed full time.”

“It’s not like I’m in anyone else’s.”

“That’s right. Not even your own. Because you still don’t _have_ a bed. You still insist on sleeping on a futon like a bachelor in his mom’s basement even though you bought Grace an actual bed.”

He rolls his eyes because this is a practiced argument at this point. They have it nearly once a month and he knows someday soon he’s going to cave because he’s sure about what they have, feels it deeper in his bones than Rachel ever got. He doesn’t sing for just anyone, after all. But he’s cautious, a little burned and it’s easier to maintain a place because he’s a worst-case scenario guy, a trait he knows isn’t his most flattering. 

Still, Steve’s needling is gentle, filled with humor. While he nags, Danny knows he gets it, isn’t hurt by Danny’s reluctance, willing to let Danny come in his own time.

Steve takes his plate from his hands, running a finger through the syrup left on it, bringing it to his lips for a quick taste. He hums appreciatively and Danny groans.

“Seriously? What did I say about things to do? You can’t just…” he waves a hand, meaning to suggest all of Steve’s _Steveness_ ; his waist, his abs, his hair, the way he’s sucking at his finger like it's Danny’s cock.

Steve’s eyes sparkle with barely held back mirth. “Come on, Danno. We’ve still got three hours. That’s plenty of time.”

“That is only because you are on island time, pal. When Rachel says noon, she means eleven forty-five at the latest. Hey, hey, what are you doing?”

Steve has crowded back into his space and is ignoring Danny’s arms trying to push him away, trapping them down beneath his hands to the counter, leaning in to kiss him and really, it’s unfair the way Steve can make all rational thoughts fly out of his head with only his lips.

This kiss is flavored with coffee and mango and a hint of the syrup left on his lips. Danny gives in and leans his chest and shoulders into Steve’s body, desperate to get closer, wanting to run his hands over highly defined abs that are trembling slightly, but his hands are still clutching the counter’s edge, wrists wrapped in Steve’s long fingers.

Finally, after a series of lingering kisses that cause both of their erections to go from morning wood to full blown, Steve lets up on his hands and uses his own to cup Danny’s ass, pulling him off the counter so that they’re pressed together from chest to knees. 

“Why have I been dancing?” Steve inquires, running a hand possessively down Danny’s hip.

“Nobody really knows, babe,” Danny says, tone mocking, but letting Steve know with his own grabby hands and grind of his hips that he appreciates it all the same.

~~~

Later, they are wallowing in the afterglow and they have to get up soon, shower, straighten the house before Rachel drops off Grace, but Steve is tangled up around him and Danny thinks they still have a few more minutes. But.

“How many different people have you had sex with to that album?”

Steve stretches his body out, limbs liquid with orgasm, his eyes shutting as he throws an arm over Danny, effectively trapping him. 

“Doesn’t matter. You’re the only one that does…Danny…”

His name is barely a sigh out of Steve by the end of the sentence. He snuffles a little into Danny’s shoulder, then his breathing evens out just that quick and Danny’s left alone to grin stupidly at Steve’s admission.

“I bet you say that to all the girls,” he mumbles to the zonked out man next to him, but he’s still grinning. He reaches over to set the alarm on his phone for another half an hour. Grace won’t mind if the dishes are still dirty. If she does, he’ll buy her shaved ice. 

He’s just going to buy them all shaved ice anyway. Today, he thinks, as he dozes off, hand resting on the arm Steve has slung over his chest, he’s okay with all things Hawaiian.

And Van Morrison.

**Author's Note:**

> Partly inspired by one of my fav scenes of [The West Wing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hneCGkfK0XU)  
> *Also, I just feel like Steve's a Van Morrison guy and you can pry that headcanon from my cold dead hands.
> 
> Follow and chat with me [on tumblr](http://mf-luder-xf.tumblr.com)!


End file.
